


Nightmares

by Yevynaea



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I know I should be working on my other fics but I seem to have hit a wall, Now I'm going to have to finish this one too, death; and lots of it, stupid me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She whispers to an empty world;<br/>She speaks of times gone by,<br/>And in the absence of the sun<br/>She dreams of star-filled skies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

Blood. So much blood and so much pain. Crimson stains on the snow that will disappear when the ice melted. Stains that will stay in nightmarish memories but be gone from the world, just like the boy whose blood now dirties the freshly fallen snow.  The boy's breath comes in ragged gasps, he is but eighteen and still a child at heart, to see him dying so soon and so painfully, lying mangled and alone in the cold darkness of this winter night, it would surely bring tears to anyone's eyes. Except for one.  
  Death takes a step toward the boy, watching without emotion as his soul begins to leave his body. It is a curious little thing, full of vibrance and colors that Death could not name, and ever so slowly it moves like wisps of smoke into Death's hand. Long, bony fingers feel the peculiar tickle of the spirit moving over them before floating away to wherever it must go. The boy's limp body lies with unseeing green eyes that stare into the dark skies above, and Death leans down to get started on rearranging limbs to look less like a broken puppet. It is the only thing Death can do for the boy,s family; make sure they do not see him bloodied and broken. That would just be cruel. With a remorseful sigh, Death stands up straight, dusting nonexistent wrinkles off the front of a plain black top, clutching the infamous scythe that identifies Death as the reaper of souls. One ghostly pale hand reaches up to catch a falling snowflake, and eyes that were colorless and infinitely colorful all at once watched the tiny crystal melt as it met bare skin.  
  "I see you've been busy." A familiar voice reaches Death's ears, and the reaper turns to see another figure, standing over the dead boy with little pity.  
  "No," Death whispers flatly, "He would not have lived had I been here or not, I was only here to help him cross. The younger ones always have trouble."  
  "Of course." The second figure waves a dismissive hand, clasping grey-tinged fingers behind his back. Death watches with mild curiosity as the other leans forward and closes the boy's eyes.  
  "Never saw much point in that." Death muses. "It's as if you're trying to pretend the dead are sleeping."  
  "It's certainly less disturbing than letting him stare up at me." The other says curtly, and Death can't help but smirk at the other's perturbed expression.  
  "Why have you come here?" Death asks after a pause, and the other figure chuckles mirthlessly.  
  "You're wasting no time on pleasantries. As eager as ever to get to the point, hmm?"   
"Just tell me why you're here." Death says with an eye roll, absentmindedly drawing symbols in the snow until the other finally answers:  
  "I am here because I require your services." Death looks up with mild interest upon hearing this. No other spirit has asked anything like this before.  
  "Is that so?" Death tries to sound nonchalant, but it doesn't quite work.  
  "Yes. I'm sure you are aware of what transpired last Easter?" The other asks, his silver-gold eyes narrowed inquiringly.  
  "Of course." Death snickers. "Father chose a new favorite, and you tried once again to usurp his 'chosen ones'. And failed."  
  The other's lips harden into a flat line, irritated gaze landing on Death for a split second before he goes back to staring at the dead boy.   
"Why do you call him Father?" He asks, with genuine curiosity behind the disdain.   
"He made us what we are, is that not what Fathers do?" Death shrugs. "I suppose you think of him as an enemy, but Fathers can be foes, too."  
  The other nods contemplatively.   
"I suppose so." He says quietly, then blinks as if to clear his mind and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "If you know what happened last Easter then you'll know how I was defeated, yes?"   
"Yes." Death grins deviously. "You were defeated by children. Their innocence crippled you."  
  "Exactly." The other taps Death on the nose somewhat condescendingly, which is quite annoying. "I need you to go to a certain child. Their strongest believer; their last light."  
"And do what?" Death doesn't like where this is going.   
"Snuff it out." The other grins darkly, revealing pointed teeth not unlike those of a shark.  
  "I will not." Death turns on one heel, and is about to retreat into the shadows when the other places his hands on both shoulders, forcing Death to stop...well...to stop dead.   
"Oh, I think you will. Because with that child gone his friends will realize how hopeless their war is. They will see how pointless it is to fight against fear. And you and I will be the most believed in. We will finally be able to take our places as rulers over this world." Death looks dubiously at the grey man.  
  "Why would I need to rule over the mortals when I already hold such power over them?" Death asks.  
  "Oh, please. Don't tell me you've never wanted recognition. Never wanted to be seen. To be believed in. To be feared."   
"I don't need fear. That's your strong point." Death taps the other on the nose, earning an irate glare and a light smack on the hand.  
  "But you can't deny you've wanted to be acknowledged, at the very least." The man persists, and Death stares at the ground for several minutes with pursed lips.  
  "Fine. I'll snuff out your last light. But on one condition." Death holds up a finger for emphasis. The other nods as if to say 'go on'. "If Father's pets get involved, you save the young one for me."  
  "And what interest have you in the boy?" The man asks, clearly disappointed that he won't be able to have the pleasure of destroying said boy himself.   
"All the others were chosen the normal way, but the boy was already mine when Father brought him back." Death scowls. "He is the only other I've heard of to die before being chosen. He evaded me once; never again."  
  The other grins, satisfied with Death's determination.  
  "Very well." He says with a nod, looping one gangly arm around Death's shoulders. "The boy is yours. But first thing's first; we need to get rid of that pesky little light." The new allies melt into the shadows, leaving no trace they were ever there to begin with, and begin making their way to Burgess, where a ten year old boy is blissfully ignorant of his fast approaching fate.

❖❖❖❖❖

  As she watches the "last light" tell stories to his younger sister, Death almost regrets her choice to join Pitch Black. Almost. Jamie is a wonderful child, with his whole life ahead of him, however overused that phrase is, but getting rid of him will be worth it. With only a slightly heavy heart, Death looks on from the shadows while Jamie gets ready for bed, says good night to his family, then climbs into bed.   
She watches his breathing slow as he falls into a deep slumber, she watches a ribbon of dream sand enter the room and begin the innocent child's dream. Then, tightening her grip on the scythe she's carried for as long as she can remember, Death steps into the open, crossing the room in two long strides and holding the blade just centimeters above the boy's throat.   
"I'm sorry." She whispers, but it is not heartfelt. You have to have a heart for that. In one fluid motion, she slits the boy's throat, leaving no cut on his skin but effectively pulling his soul away from its vessel. The boy stills, the dream sand above his head crumbling away as his breath stops completely. His soul, a fiery mass of energy, dances around Death's hand before she sends it off to where it needs to go.

❖❖❖❖❖  
  The Sandman knows something is wrong when one of his sand ribbons starts crumbling. Even though there are millions of threads, each one is connected to his consciousness somehow, and it simply feels wrong for one to be giving up on him like this. He follows the quickly disappearing tendril to the Bennett house, his heart jumping into his throat when he looks in the window of Jamie's bedroom. His gaze falls on Death just as she slips away, and Sandy's heart all but stops at the sight of Jamie, lying pale and still in his bed.  
The Sandman doesn’t make a sound; he never does. Instead he sends long ribbons of dream sand in every direction, drawing the other Guardians to him as silent golden tears stream down his face.  
The children of Burgess will never understand why their dreams are so sad on this night, and when Pitch’s Nightmares attack the next night, and then the next, and every night for weeks after that, draining the children of their belief and crippling the mourning Guardians before they have a chance to fight back, the children eventually forget. They forget that there was once hope, that there was wonder and fun and that there were dreams. They forget that there was ever anything but darkness, and there is no one to help them remember.


End file.
